


Taste of Cherry Chapstick

by tristesses



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Genderswap, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six people and their interactions with Polina Andreiyevna Chekova.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste of Cherry Chapstick

**Author's Note:**

> Written on 11/30/2009 for the st_xi_kink_meme prompt: _I want to see what the crew thinks about Polina Chekov and her sumptuous, plump, pink lips._

**I. Sulu**  
The first time he meets her, she's fourteen, with all the physical and emotional baggage that age has to offer: smack in the middle of a growth spurt, zitty, socially awkward, and too naive to be properly defensive about any of it. Her English is staggeringly bad ("I am studying to be nawigator, not linguist" she tells him primly), her stellar cartography is staggeringly good ("Is not your fault, Hikaru," she tells him after she aces their first midterm without actually studying, patting his hand, "I am just smarter than you," which doesn't exactly make him feel better), and, as Hikaru slowly realizes as the years slide by, her body is staggeringly hot.

He tries to rationalize it - at sixteen, Polina Chekova has the sort of innate grace and perfect symmetry that could make even a Vulcan watch her out of the corner of their eye as she walks her fast-paced way to class; his reaction's got to be biological. An evolutionary drive to procreate with the most physically appealing specimen available. Yeah, that's it. Blame it on the hormones, Hikaru.

That theory would make sense, but there's other things, too. Like every morning at breakfast, when Polina's just rolled out of bed, dressed in her baggy Starfleet-issue pajamas, curls tangled and frizzy, skin oily, eyes crusty, and not at all his type (which usually aligns with the made-up beauty queen stereotype, the kind who wouldn't dare go out in public without being dressed to the nines), but he looks at her full lips, pale without makeup, and wonders what it would feel like to nibble on them. She munches on fresh fruit and speaks earnestly about incomprehensible equations with her eyes on Hikaru, expecting him to understand, and if he was a good friend he probably would (or at least he'd listen), but instead he stares at this creature before him while she and fantasizes about _those lips_ wrapping around certain parts of his anatomy.

Polina dips a strawberry into whipped cream - her favorite breakfast, Hikaru knows, and one of the little splurges she allows herself - and sucks the cream off of the red fruit, her candy-pink tongue curling around the tip. Hikaru's world trembles as it peeks out of the corner of her mouth, catching an errant dollop of cream.

"Hikaru?" Polina asks, regarding him curiously. "I have something on my face? You are staring."

"You know, the point of strawberries is to eat them, not use them as an implement for eating whipped cream," he says, and when she smiles at him he learns the true meaning of the phrase 'Cupid's bow lips'.

"Hikaru!" she laughs, "I know, but they are delicious!" and she pushes one under his nose. He bites into it, takes it from her fingers, and when he looks up she's licking the cream and juice from her fingers.

Hikaru swallows, and thinks he may just be a little in love with his best friend.

 **II. Gaila**  
"I like your lipstick," Gaila says to the cute human girl, jogging to catch up with her. "Also your lips."

The human's buried in a PADD, ostensibly studying for what looks like a theoretical physics exam, but really flipping idly through screens which promise in frilly Cyrillic to teach her **Five Ways To Multiple Orgasms!** and **Xenobio 101 - How To Date Outside Your Species!** When Gaila speaks to her, she jumps and turns her head guiltily, then widens her eyes as she takes in Gaila's appearance. Gaila doesn't mind; she's used to it, and it's usually complimentary anyway.

"Oh," says the human, surprised, blushing a sweet rose color. "Thank you. This is my favorite color on my lips."

"Mine, too," Gaila says, and grins at the girl's deepening flush. "I'm Gaila."

"Polina Andreiyevna Chekova," the girl answers. "Is it permitted to ask - you are Orion?"

"Yes, I definitely am," Gaila says. She waits for the inevitable question - are you an escaped slave?

It doesn't come. Polina licks her lips, a movement Gaila follows with her eyes, and says carefully, "I am interested in trying a woman. Would you help?" She stops for a moment, while Gaila's grin slowly morphs into a smirk, and adds quickly, "Am I rude?"

Gaila wraps an arm around Polina's waist, tugging her tucked-in shirt out of her pants and stroking the smooth skin at the girl's hip, and Polina sighs and leans into her. Human heat in Gaila's arms and the thrum of sexual tension radiating from both their skins, one of the best feelings in the world, in Gaila's opinion.

"Not at all, Polina Andreiyevna Chekova," Gaila says, wrapping her tongue around the consonants, so different from the sibilance of her native language. "In fact, I'm glad you asked. Let's go check out that lipstick of yours, and we'll go from there."

 ****

. . .

Polina's lips smear shimmering pink color across the verdant plane of Gaila's stomach, encircle her nipple, and tease. Gaila moans and arches her back into the touch, and Polina's lips disconnect with a slight pop, leaving a pink circle stamped on Gaila's skin.

"I am doing good, _da_?" Polina asks huskily, her fingers stroking along Gaila's thigh.

" _So_ good," Gaila groans, and wriggles underneath the smaller girl. "But I want you to do better."

"What - " asks Polina, but Gaila's already flipped her over, onto her back, and is kneeling between Polina's coltish legs, nudging her thighs apart, a true smile on her face - she's sort of elated, truthfully, she doesn't get to break in virgins as often as she'd like, and it's always so much _fun_.

"And by do better," she clarifies, seeing the crushed embarrassment in the human girl's face, "I mean I want you to come so hard you squirt all over me."

Polina makes a little "eep" at that, which doesn't surprise Gaila; humans aren't used to her frankness. But she meant every word she said, and she intends to prove that.

The juncture of Polina's thighs is dusted with light brown hair, softly curly, and when Gaila slips a finger along and down her slit she bares Polina's glistening center to the air of the room; Polina whimpers, and Gaila breathes on her sensitive skin.

"Oh," Polina sighs, and when Gaila parts the flushed lips of her sex and replaces her hand with her mouth, kissing and licking little patterns, dipping her tongue inside her, Polina inhales sharply and moans out a string of Russian syllables that Gaila can't quite catch. She gets the gist of it, though, and taps at Polina's hard clit with her tongue. The girl cries out, arches her back and bucks her hips, and she tastes salty and fleshy in Gaila's mouth, her thighs are already shaking.

 

"I want - " she gasps, "I want - "

"Tell me what you want, leaflet," Gaila murmurs, pressing a finger against Polina's entrance.

"That! That, I want - _bozhe moy_ \- inside me - "

Gaila hums delightedly, nuzzles her nose, mouth, and chin against Polina's dripping sex, and reaches for the long, narrow tube of lipstick. She's always been creative with her makeup, after all.

 **III. Uhura**  
She was fluent in three of the four Standard Federation languages - English, Vulcan, and Andorii, to be specific - before she even attended the Academy, a result of years of study during the time most of her classmates were out partying, so it's really only logical that she be selected to help tutor those in her class who can't grasp even the most basic phrases and words that Starfleet requires them to know.

There's only one problem: she's already taking the full courseload recommended for Communications track cadets, as well as two additional classes (an advanced-level Vulcan Literature course and an introductory Xenopsych class), not to mention the fact that she has significantly less study time than usual due to her roommate's irritating habit of bringing men (and women, and non-gender-binary aliens) back to their room, and she seriously does not have time to help her fellow cadets with _anything_.

But she finds it very difficult to say no to her teachers when they ask for her help. What can she say? She likes being useful. So she agrees to help four cadets with their Andorii - just four, mind, and only for an hour a week - and resigns herself to getting even less sleep than before.

Only three students ever show up. One of them is a Tellarite who storms off a little bit into their first lesson when she corrects his pronunciation - apparently she was too sharp, but in Uhura's opinion, he was just oversensitive. Another is a no-nonsense blonde with amused blue eyes, a nurse on the Medical track, who tells Uhura candidly that she prefers "just asking where it hurts and having them point. It's easier in an emergency than fumbling over my words." And the third is a teenage girl with a thick Russian accent who's a bundle of energy, constantly doodling quantum equations on her PADD instead of bothering to learn the difference between the conditional and past conditional tenses. Uhura likes her, though, even if she suspects that some of that wide-eyed naïveté is an act; Polina works hard, and she teaches Uhura Russian in exchange for her tutelage.

"I don't understand why you have such a hard time with alien languages," Uhura says, after they've been working together for a full semester. Even the nurse, Christine-but-call-me-Chris, hasn't lasted that long, pleading difficulties balancing her medical duties with her schoolwork. "Your English is getting better by the day, and you're absolutely eloquent in Russian. You should be able to pick up Andorii easily."

Polina sighs, and sets down her stylus. Uhura can see vines sketched over the work on her PADD.

"Is not difficulty vith all language," she says. "Only Andorii. My mouth does not make the right shapes, I cannot do it."

Uhura looks at Polina's mouth, her pert rosebud lips. She's pretty sure her roommate has that same shade of lipstick.

"It is hard," she allows. "It's a very stilted language, not at all like Russian. But you don't have to speak it fluently, you just need a few key phrases."

"I know." Polina glances down at her hands; she's picking at her cuticles. "But it is hard."

"Why did you choose Andorii?" Uhura asks, genuinely curious. "You only have to pick two languages in addition to your native tongue - so you have Standard English and now this. I think Vulcan would come more easily to you - its grammatical structure is similar to Russian, and with your palate it would flow better than Andorii - and it'd probably be more helpful, what with Vulcans being scientists and whatnot."

"That is true," Polina muses, and then glances up, her face alight with a smile. "I have alvays vanted to visit the Wulcan Science Academy, did you know?"

Uhura grins back; Polina's smile is infectious.

"I didn't," she says. "But you know, you can change your language emphasis now if you want; I'll put in a word for you in the Linguistics department." It's early in her Academy career, but she's just good enough and works hard enough to be the department's golden child.

"Vill you teach me?" Polina inquires, eyes gleaming. "You are good at teaching. I know you are not technically a professor, but I think your help vould be wery beneficial."

"Well, the professor here is amazing," Uhura demurs. "He teaches my Vulcan Lit class, and since he's actually from there his accent is just impeccable. He's a hardass, but if you actually try he'll help you. I mean, he's Vulcan, so you can't really tell what he's feeling - or, you know, observing, I suppose - but I think he approves when people try their best. I know that when I mess up with my poetry translations he's very considerate and helpful. He's really just...amazing."

She finishes her spiel lamely, feels the blood rush to her face, and takes a gulp of her latte. Polina is smirking at her.

"I think you like this Wulcan, not just because he teaches vell," she decides, eyes dancing. Uhura pulls herself together, and tosses her ponytail over her shoulder.

"That's neither here nor there," she says severely. Her words have no impact on Polina, who's now surfing through the faculty directory, nibbling at her lower lip. "Do you want me to teach you a few Vulcan phrases so you can decide if you want to take it?"

" _Da_ , I do!"

"Okay. Well - " Uhura casts about for where to begin. "First, the ritual greeting they use is translated as live long and prosper, but in Vulcan, you would say _dif-tor heh smusma_. I won't get into grammar right now, because we just want to see if you have a feel for it. So _dif-tor heh smusma_. Repeat."

Polina listens, brow furrowed, and pokes her lip with the tip of her stylus, smearing pink lipstick on it.

" _Dif-tor heh smusma_ ," she repeats carefully, mangling the pronunciation.

"Not bad," Uhura lies. "But here, shape your lips into more of an O, that'll help with the vowels…"

Almost an hour later, as they gather their belongings to leave the coffee shop, Polina stops her with a hand on her arm.

"I vant to thank you," she says solemnly. "You are wery helpful."

"It's nothing," Uhura says, and then, trusting her instinct, adds, "What are friends for?"

The smile Polina gives her is reward enough for the additional hour of study time she lost today.

 **IV. McCoy**  
So fucking wrong. That's what this is, just fucked up, twisted - the kid looks like she's sixteen, no matter what she says, and if she is, it's not like Starfleet's gonna take "She's got a really good fake ID" as a valid defense - but God, this girl, this Polina, she's warm in his arms, and damp with sweat, and so flexible she seems boneless. Damn Russian gymnast. And McCoy can only imagine the look on Jim's face if he walked in their room to see this, this hot little slut with her legs wrapped around McCoy's hips and her rosebud lips wet and parted as she moans, rubbing herself against his thigh shamelessly. McCoy, good old country doctor, the guy who hasn't had one hookup all three and a half years at the Academy, fucking this Russian Lolita like his life depends on it - which it might, judging from the case of blue balls he's had ever since he saw her sucking on a lollipop as she walked to class three weeks ago. A lollipop, Christ. How fucking cliché.

Polina wraps her hand around his swollen cock, jolting him out of his train of thought, and looks up into his face, guileless blue eyes huge from under her wispy bangs.

"Like this, Doctor?" she asks sweetly, and oh, fuck yeah, he can be the school doctor and she can be his naïve patient dressed in a twentieth-century plaid schoolgirl skirt -

"Spit in your hand first," he tells her, voice hoarse, "and then, you know, do what you're doing - _shit_ \- "

She does what he asks, and then some, reaching over him to Jim's nightstand and the little bottle of flavored lube perched there. Squirting it into her hand, she strokes it along his shaft - McCoy groans and pushes his hips up, thrusting his cock in her warm palm - and then she gets a look on her face that he could only describe as devious. Polina dabs a little of the lube onto her finger and wraps those fucking gorgeous lips around the tip, sucking the lube off theatrically, peering into his face from underneath lowered lids.

"Strawberry is my favorite flawor," she tells him, and giggles, fucking giggles, and adds, "I think I want more," and she lowers her mouth to his cock -

\- and there McCoy's mind stutters a bit because now her lips are stretched around his cock, plump and sumptuous with the hint of a smile curling at the edges of her mouth, and it's so fucking good, and she's stroking the sheathed head of his cock with her tongue -

"Yeah, darlin'," he breathes, and lets his head come to rest against the wall with a thunk. "Oh, yeah, sweetheart, you just keep doing that - "

She moans her assent, and bobs her head. McCoy's hips jerk in response, and she makes a little gagging noise.

"Fuck, sweetheart, I'm sorry - " His hands flutter, and for lack of anything else to do, settle in her dark curls, petting her hair. "But you're doing such a good job, darlin', you're doing just perfect - "

She releases his cock with a slight pop, tilts her head to lick along his shaft, and then she gently pulls back his foreskin and laps at his sensitive head - "Fuck! Polina, fuck, oh, baby girl, you're so fucking good," - and when glances up at him, there's a string of saliva dripping down her chin, she looks so fucking debauched, and she says, "You like this, Daddy?"

" _Daddy_ \- " he gasps, and his cock practically twitches at the word, and Polina raises her eyebrows inquiringly and asks the question again, her voice so sweet and curious -

To hell with it, he decides, and leaves the moral questioning for later.

"Yeah, sweetheart, Daddy likes it," he groans, "likes it real good. But let's do this - " and he pushes her shoulder lightly, toppling her to her back on the bed, "I want a taste of you, okay?"

She watches him with huge eyes, and he pauses. "This okay?"

It's almost like she snaps out of whatever role she's playing, the only one he's seen this entire time - she blinks and nods quickly, and the doll-like delicacy leaves her posture, and she says impatiently, " _Da_ , Leonard, I am okay. Now, _pajalsta_ , more - " and she slips effortless back into being Lolita.

"God, you're fucking amazing," he growls, and grabs her by the hips and drags her closer. "Now let's see what you taste like, sweetheart."

"Oh - " she starts, but McCoy's licked his fingers and moved his hand between her legs, catching her clit between two fingers and pinching it lightly, then thrusting the same two fingers inside her. "Oh, oh - _da_ , keeping going, Doctor - Daddy - "

He ducks his head and licks at her mercilessly, sucking hickeys on the tender flesh of her inner thighs, and above him Polina's crying out, little sharp "oohs" and delicate little moans, her short nails raking against his scalp.

"My sweetheart's pussy tastes so good," he tells her, and the words are raw and dirty in his mouth. "Does my girl want to ride my cock?"

"Mm-hmm," she sighs, " _da_ , I vant your cock, now," and somehow - McCoy doesn't know how, his perception of events is blurred by hormones and lust - she ends up sprawled in his lap, and he leans against the wall again, grasping her thighs as she impales herself on him, gripping his shoulders, curls falling wildly about her face, her full lower lip clenched between her teeth.

"This good for you, darlin'?" he asks, and he's going to lose control soon, and he has to concentrate on the Krebs cycle to not just flip her over and fuck her though the mattress right the fuck now.

" _Da_ ," she whispers, and rocks her hips experimentally. Her eyes flutter shut. "Oh - Doctor, so good - "

"I'm gonna fuck you now," he tells her, and pistons his hips up against her, then again, again, surging inside her, and she squeaks and her fingers dig into his shoulder.

"Harder," she begs, and what's a country doctor to do when his patient asks so prettily?

He fucks her hard, just like she asked, hearing only the wet sound of skin smacking against skin, her whimpers, the blood pounding in his ears; he keeps his eyes on her small, bouncing breasts and her gaping mouth, her pink lips. When she comes, eyes rolling back in her head, jaw falling open as she inhales a huge gasp, toes and fingers clenching, McCoy kisses her.

"Come for me, baby girl," he growls in her ear as she shudders around him. "Yeah, like that, darlin', good girl - "

She slides off of him after her orgasm subsides, movements fluid, just when McCoy is about ready to come (fuck, why did she move?), but then she kneels between his legs, grips his cock at the base, and licks her juices off his skin, curling her tongue around the shaft, pumping slow and smooth and so good, fuck, McCoy's eyes are half-closed and he's watching her, the motions of her hand better than any elaborate, kinky fantasy he's ever constructed, and her other hand is between her legs, stroking gently over the sensitive flesh and he focuses on that, the wet sound of her fingers rubbing her clit, remembers the taste of her on his tongue, and she hums a happy little sound and murmurs his name, and he comes with a bitten-off shout, spurting all over her chest.

"Beautiful, you're beautiful," he whispers, "Jesus fucking Christ - "

" _Nyet_ , just Polina," she replies, still a little shaky from coming so damn hard, and laughs. She curls against his side, and he wraps his arms around her, cradling her thin frame in his arms. It's good, calm, he can feel her heartbeat against his palm, and he relaxes minutely, inch by inch.

"You have the most gorgeous lips," McCoy says after a while, still a little dazed, and Polina smiles at him. It's apparently her cue to leave, because she kisses him once, gently, smoothly, before she slips nimbly out of the bed and dresses. McCoy feels strange watching her, lying there naked while she puts on her cadet reds (pulling on her undershirt without even wiping away his come, and he's slightly impressed at how sexy that is), but before he says anything, she zips up her boots, and turns to him.

"Thank you, Leonard," she says, then her eyes light up impishly and she adds, "Or Daddy?"

McCoy sputters, and she grins at him, giving him a little wave before she steps through the automated door into the corridor, hair still a mess, clearly well-fucked - stepping right past Jim, who looks at her and says, "Well, hey there," before glancing in the room and seeing McCoy. Polina slips past him with a shy smile, but there's nothing McCoy can do to avoid his crow of "Bones! You finally got laid! And she's hot, too!" and the questioning that's doubtless going to follow. He's too old for this shit.

McCoy rolls his eyes, and lets his head bang hard against the wall.

 

 **V. Spock**  
He is observing his hands. Based solely on a physical analysis, it would appear that he has inherited them from his father: his palm is square, broad, his fingers long and bony. When fully extended, his index fingers list slightly to the center; his thumbs curve out, rather than remaining straight, a recessive trait in Vulcans. Again, his father's genetics; his mother called it a hitchhiker's thumb, although when asked precisely why a hitchhiker would require a certain genetic fluke in order to be successful, she could not elaborate clearly enough for Spock to comprehend.

It is strange, referring to her in the past tense. It makes his limbs feel heavy, his eyes burn, as if the wind is blowing desert sand against his face. Alone, he allows his nictitating membranes to slide partway over his eyes, thus preventing the liquid produced by his all-too-human tear ducts from spilling out onto his cheeks. Full-blooded Vulcans do not have the capacity to cry for reasons other than eye irritants.

 _(Look at his eyes, he has human eyes. They look sad...don't they?)_

His hands rest on his knees. Palm up, his fingers curl slightly; corpse's hands. An irrational thought - he is not dead, and even if he were speaking metaphorically, aligning himself with the deceased of the planet's population, it would be an inaccurate analogy; those who have died (who have been murdered) have no bodies to speak of. He finds himself too hollow to make more than a cursory an attempt to justify it, regardless.

The _Enterprise_ is making its way back to Earth, cruising on impulse power only; the warp core is offline due to an imminent breach only barely contained. The damage they sustained during the fight is formidable. He should be in engineering, assisting the newly-assigned Mr. Scott with repairs. He cannot force himself to move; instead, he remains here, in the vacant chair at the console of transporter room three, staring at the platform upon which his party materialized minus the one person most essential to Spock's well-being.

 _  
_(I married her because I loved her, Spock.)_   
_

He never had the opportunity or the initiative to tell her the same.

There is a soft hiss as the automated door slides open. Spock does not look to see who has entered; should his presence be required elsewhere on the ship, they will surely notify him. If not, their identity is unimportant.

The person neither asks for his assistance nor leaves the room. Instead, she goes to the seat beside him and perches on the edge. Out of the corner of his eye, Spock identifies her: Chekova, Polina Andreiyevna, recently awarded the rank of Ensign, skilled in stellar cartography and transporter theory. It was she who had successfully transported Kirk and Sulu from the planet's surface in free-fall, an astounding act; it was also she who failed to achieve the same feat twice and indirectly caused his mother's death.

"What is your purpose here, Ensign?" he says tonelessly. She inhales quickly, as if his words were unexpected.

He is not yet certain if he blames her for Amanda's death; it was, after all, a statistically improbable task, yet he cannot absolve her of all guilt. Not immediately.

"I vanted to see you, Commander," she says hesitantly. She twines her fingers worriedly in her lap; Spock swivels in his chair to face her, and notes that she has chewed a scraped spot on her lower lip. "I vanted to say that I am sorry about Wu- _Vulcan_."

"It is unnecessary," he replies, and the words fall flat even to his ears. "There was no action you could have taken to prevent the occurrence, therefore an apology is illogical."

"That is not vhat I mean," she insists, and clamps down on her lip again, her teeth slotted neatly into the raw crease. Spock unconsciously catches the inner skin of his own lip in imitation. "I am sorry because - because I lost her."

Still. He reminds himself to be still, to allow his mind to roll like dunes, smooth and unceasing. Remain unaffected. "I - "

He cannot finish the sentence. Cannot reassure her that he does not hold her responsible, that she does not have to work beside him with the terrible burden of guilt on her young shoulders, that she does not have to cry as humans do when their world slips out of alignment. He can only just handle his own precarious emotions; he has none to spare for her.

She is quiet, and he does not look at her until she touches his arm tentatively, her fingers light against the stiff blue material.

"I grieve with thee," she whispers, and although the words are spoken in Standard, the import she gives them as they drop from her lips make them nearly as heavy as their Vulcan equivalents. He cannot suppress a shudder, nor the instant roiling wave of self-loathing that washes over him as his emotions once again escape his control. "I think you already know it, but she loves you."

Spock does not inquire as to how she could be so certain of the opinions of a woman she never met. He knows that is not the important section of her sentence. He also knows she waits for a response, sitting awkwardly in her chair, gnawing a nervous, angry hole through her bottom lip. He will not be able to give her one.

After a moment, she withdraws her hand, and exits the room as softly as she came. Her footsteps are sure and swift. Spock grips the cool metal of the console; it feels as if his body is burning at a feverish temperature; it feels as if he needs to stand on solid ground. Lowering his head, he presses his forehead against the metal; it is a cool human hand on his brow, Amanda's hand ruffling his strict Vulcan haircut. Exhaling, he shuts his eyes, a respite from the artificial starship lights. He welcomes the darkness.

 _(Spock, whatever you choose to be, you will have a proud mother.)_

"Yes," he tells Ensign Chekova, although she is absent and his words are merely empty consolation, illogical to the extreme, "I know."

 **VI. Polina Andreiyevna Chekova**  
As she sits in Sickbay, shoved to the side amid the hubbub of doctors, nurses, and patients much more injured than she, Polina catalogues her battle wounds for the day. Her teeth are loose and feel like they're rattling around in her mouth, there's blood streaked in a dry jagged line down her chin and jaw, the knife-sharp pain in her side is probably a cracked rib, and she's strained what feels like every muscle she has in her body, including ones she hasn't used before. It's fairly run-of-the-mill for an away mission on a hostile planet, but she still isn't used to either the pain or the adrenaline high; her arms and thighs are quivering, and it feels like her brain is floating. Experimentally, she drags her teeth lightly across her throbbing lip, and accidentally splits it open again. Oh no.

"You look pretty beat up," Hikaru says from behind her, dropping easily into a vacant chair. "What, did you get in a fight with a bar full of Klingons?"

"They sassed me," she informs him, using a turn of phrase picked up from the irascible doctor, her lips curling in a smile. "But you vould not understand, up here safe in this great big ship."

He laughs, and she can see the weary lines in his face. She wonders if he's been pulling extra shifts these past two days, fretting over the fate of the away team.

"Well, when Doctor McCoy stops behaving like a mother hen, comm me. We'll fence." He stands, stretches, and lopes away. Polina stares after him, and quickly runs through her phrasebook of Standard idioms. How is Leonard similar to a chicken? She doesn't know what Hikaru means. No matter; she understands the important part - fencing! She can ask Leonard about the chicken comparison later.

She doesn't get a chance; he sweeps over and growls her name, glaring at her injuries, and she meekly follows him to an exam table.

"Hop up," he grunts, and she does, perched on the edge. "What the hell did those Ziridians do to your face?"

"I vas in bar fight," she jokes, and winks when his face registers incredulity. "Vith Klingons."

"Don't you start," he says roughly, and cups the side of her face, stroking his thumb over her split lip. "I mean it. What'd they do?"

Polina leans into his touch; it's comforting, warm and familiar. "Nothing that is unusual. They had clubs, ve did not have our phasers."

"Damn technology," he mutters, and picks up a dermal regenerator. "If we focused more on medical tech than weapons, I'd be a happy man."

"You are not one now?" she inquires, meaning for it to be a joke. Leonard glances at her, and while his eyes soften, his voice remains brusque.

"I'll be happier when you stop coming to Sickbay with lacerations all over your body," he snaps. "That's it, you're done. Go and get some sleep, you need it."

Polina licks her lips and tastes old blood, but there's no cut there anymore. "Thank you, Doctor."

In her quarters, she makes her way to the bathroom and splashes her face with cool water. It comes out of her weekly H2O allotment, which she usually saves for showers, but today it's worth it; the icy shock jolts her out of her haze. The water streaks the crusted blood on her chin and cheek and makes it run like smeared lipstick. Polina touches it lightly, then rubs her lips, rosy pink and flawless again; for some reason, she wishes she had a scar, a mark to indicate her worth in a fight, to make her appear as more than just a naïve young girl. Instead, she's just had to prove herself over and over for everyone who underestimates her - a startling amount of people.

 _Never mind them_ , she tells herself, and strips out of her uniform, starting the shower, running real water to get the sticky sweat off her skin. _I have Leonard, and Hikaru, the Captain and Uhura and even Mr. Spock - the whole bridge crew knows what I can do. That's enough. More than enough._

The heated water lulls her to tiredness, and she finds herself swaying in the sleek chrome stall. Sleep seems like a wonderful idea, and it only takes her a few minutes to dry off and slip into a worn men's undershirt, wrap her sopping curls in a towel, and tumble into her bed.

 ****

. . .

She's awakened by the heat of a body sliding under the covers beside her, an arm curving around her waist. With a drowsy sigh, she snuggles against the welcome warmth, and Leonard's grip tightens protectively around her.

"Am I sleeping long?" she asks through a yawn. Her towel's unwrapped in her sleep, and her hair is damp and spread out over her pillow.

"About eight hours." Leonard gathers her errant locks and drapes them over her shoulder, shifting closer as he does so. Polina thinks his voice sounds tense and strained, more so than usual.

"Did anything happen in Sickbay? Something bad?"

"No, darlin'." Leonard is silent for a long time, and Polina's started to drift off again before he bursts out, "It's been a damn year and a half and I still can't stand it when you come back hurt. And I know I can't protect you from everything - " A disclaimer, undoubtedly added when Polina stiffens in his arms in protest. " - and believe me, I don't want to. You're an adult, you can take care of yourself. But dammit, I don't like seeing my baby girl bleeding."

Polina is quiet. There isn't anything she can say to that - she can hardly promise to never put herself in danger again. She's serving on the _Enterprise_ ; danger is in the job description.

"I love you," she says at last. It's not the first time she's said it, nor will it be the last, but each time she does the words are weighed with the strength of her emotion.

"Love you too," he whispers back. "Now sleep. I don't want to have to hypo you."

"So romantic," she murmurs, but she's already nodding off, her lovely lips curved in the slightest contented smile.


End file.
